


The Madness of Sir George Warleggan

by chasethatbluesky



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: 5x03, 5x04, Angst, Archaic Medical Treatment, Emotional Hurt, Family, Filling In the Gaps, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Missing Scenes, S5 spoilers, series 5 spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-04 04:09:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20464793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasethatbluesky/pseuds/chasethatbluesky
Summary: A broadened account of George's breakdown in Season 5 and the efforts to treat him, starting with Dr Penrose's barbaric tenure, until Dr Dwight Enys mercifully intervenes and offers a more “unorthodox” approach.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Worried by his nephew's increasingly disturbing behaviour, Cary Warleggan reluctantly takes matters into his own hands and orders that the younger man be confined to his room.

**Chapter 1**

It was a chilly but still morning at Trenwith House. Inside, a fire crackled quietly in the main drawing room, accompanied by the occasional soft rustling of Cary Warleggan's morning newspaper.

Sitting at a round wooden table next to his son, who was quietly amusing himself with a game of cards, the usually occupied Sir George Warleggan was instead entirely motionless, staring bleakly into the middle distance – lost in his thoughts.

“Your mother would be most aggrieved to think of you neglecting your studies,” he eventually intoned, his rather tired voice devoid of any warmth.

Master Valentine looked up from his cards and regarded his father with large, earnest eyes. “But I haven’t?”

Unconvinced, George fixed his gaze on an empty chair across the room. “Am I not correct, dear?”

The eery silence that greeted the query rang loudly in both Cary and Valentine's ears.

George breathed a small, reminiscent smile as if in response to something as a liveried footman discreetly entered the room and handed Cary a letter.

Mustering a new sense of purpose, George began to gather up the previously unattended papers in front of him before rising from his seat, regarding the same empty chair across the room once more. “My dear, would you care to accompany me to Truro? I have matters to attend to at the bank.”

Having seen and heard quite enough, Cary threw down the unopened letter in his hand and rose from his own chair. “Ah, I think not. Cardy, assist Sir George to his room. He's unwell.”

George dismissed the observation with a haughty huff. “He is no such thing. My dear, will you tell them I'm perfectly fine?”

“Cardy, take his arm,” Cary ordered, his voice lower and more forceful this time.

The footman and elder Warleggan wasted no time in apprehending George between them.

“Ahh! This is— This is outrageous!” George cried, wrestling against his restrainers as they began to drag him from the room. “Unhand me! Elizabeth – tell them to unhand me!”

Frozen to the spot, Valentine watched on in silence as his father was removed.

*** * ***

Keen to avoid any undue attention from the rest of the household, Cary and the footman swiftly steered their flailing charge up the large stone and oak-panelled staircase that led to the first floor of the house.

“Uncle, have you taken leave of your senses?!” George exclaimed, his voice strained and already cracking from his exertions.

_Not I, nephew_ thought Cary. “This is for your own benefit.”

Making it to the master bedchamber, Cary and the footman jostled George inside.

Wriggling free of the two men, George scurried to the middle of the room and turned on his heel, unconsciously adopting an almost sparring stance as he momentarily squared up to his aggressors before thinking better on it. “You will release me _immediately_,” he ordered, raising his chin as he tried his best to summon a more dignified sense of authority.

Cary scowled at the footman. “Fetch Mr Burrow and tell him to bring up some laudanum,” he commanded lowly. “Then see to it that Sir George is availed to bed without delay.”

“Yes, sir,” the footman obliged, leaving Cary to ably stand guard.

“You— You cannot seriously think I will allow this in my own house,” George stammered, his usually pale features flushed and taught. “To be manhandled and humiliated in front of my wife and child.”

Cary's face hardened. “This has gone on long enough, nephew. I cannot permit you to put this family in any further jeopardy with your actions.”

“My actions?!” George scoffed. “It is _you_ that are forcibly confining me to my quarters, uncle. What will others say when they hear of it?”

“I'm afraid you're just going to have to trust me. This is better than the alternative.”

The response struck something of a chord with George, who swallowed back his next response and tensed his jawbone.

Sensing that he'd finally gotten through, and hearing two sets of footsteps echoing up the main staircase towards them, Cary relaxed his stance a fraction. “Now,” he said, “will you cease this _dangerous_ folly and allow us to help you rest a while? Perhaps you will feel more yourself after you've slept?”

George was about to answer when he saw a figure enter the room over his uncle's shoulder. “Ah, Elizabeth,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. For a moment I feared you were in agreement with this malicious scheme. Shall we not return downstairs and ready our departure for Truro?”

Cary lowered his head and breathed heavily through his nose. _So much for dealing with this quietly_ he thought.

Returning with the head butler in tow, Cardy the footman came to a halt behind Cary, who's imposing frame still all-but blocked the doorway.

“Cardy, help Sir George out of his clothes,” Cary intoned. “He is in need of rest.”

“What?” George bemoaned. “No, that is not necessary...”

The footman nodded and cautiously approached his master, whom radiated the nervous energy of a cornered animal that might take flight at any moment.

Cary then leaned towards the head butler. “Mr Burrow, Sir George has been taken ill. I need you to fix him a draft that will allow him to sleep for the next few hours... at least.”

“Of course,” Mr Burrow obliged, replying with a similar hushed tone as he eyed the tense scene in the room. “But should we not also summon a doctor?”

Cary glanced over at the scene himself, feeling an uneasy twinge in his stomach as the broad-shouldered footman attempted to relieve his unobliging nephew of his clothing. “That remains a course of action to be decided.”

When it became apparent that the operation to put George to bed would not be completed without someone getting hurt, Cary ordered the immediate administering of a strong dose of laudanum, which was carried out by Mr Burrow and Cardy as delicately as they could manage. Once the drug had begun to quell George's strength Cardy then returned to his prior task, dressing his master into his night-clothes before placing him into bed with all care.

Relieved that his nephew was finally settled, Cary ordered a general retreat of all hands from the chamber. “Sir George is _not_ to be disturbed,” he commanded after closing the heavy wooden door behind him. “I must also _insist_ that this morning's events are not discussed. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the head butler and footman replied in unison.

Satisfied that he would be obeyed, Cary nodded his assent for the head butler to leave and resume his duties elsewhere. He then stood aside, allowing Cardy to assume a sentry position in front of the door.

“Fetch me when he wakes,” he practically growled.

“Yes, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broadened account of George's breakdown in Season 5 and the efforts to treat him, starting with Dr Penrose's barbaric tenure, until Dr Dwight Enys mercifully intervenes and offers a more “unorthodox” approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George wakes up confused and disturbed in his bed, mistaking his uncle Cary for his long-time enemy, Ross Poldark.

**Chapter 2**

Having heard nothing for several hours, Cary thought it time he enquired after his nephew.

Venturing upstairs, he found Cardy the footman still dutifully standing guard outside the master bedchamber door.

“Sir George is still resting?”

“We left him undisturbed, sir. As you instructed.”

Without another word, the footman then turned and opened the door quietly, allowing Cary inside.

Carefully approaching the four-poster bed that dominated the room, Cary observed his sleeping nephew, who's characteristically lean frame looked even smaller amidst a sea of golden blankets and purest white sheets, making him almost look like a child who'd crept into his parent's bed.

As if on cue, George awoke from his drug-induced slumber with a start, sitting up clumsily and looked around himself with bleary eyes, jumping almost out of his skin when he realised that someone was stood before him. His hair was mussed and his cheeks were flush, while his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy.

Cary painted on a false smile. “Nephew!” he offered cordially.

Disturbed and angered by the unwelcome intrusion, George hardened his jaw and immediately sent a hand under one of his pillows, pulling out a loaded flintlock pistol.

Cary's face dropped. “Where did you get that?” he drawled incredulously.

Brandishing the pistol with a shaky, wayward grip, George breath quickened as adrenalin began to course through his veins. Blinking several times, he eventually made out the face of his visitor – or, rather, _faces_. For there was his love, Elizabeth, in the arms of none other than his greatest foe, Ross Poldark!

_Oh George,_ a somewhat shimmery Elizabeth cooed, leaning further into Ross' embrace. _What are you doing?! How will that serve any of us?_

Incensed by the blatant affront, George struggled to take aim. “It will serve me – to be rid of that _thief_!” he hissed, cocking back the flint angrily before steadying himself as best he could.

“Put the pistol down, George,” Cary advised as calmly as he was able to muster, holding out a hand to try and coax the action as he realised with growing concern that his nephew did not seem to see him at all.

George looked at Ross, seeing the brooding, dark-haired man shake his head disparagingly.

_ Compose yourself, George_ , Ross crooned with sickening condescension. _ What have I stolen?!_

“George,” Cary tried again.

Ross then looked adoringly at Elizabeth, pulling her even closer to him. _She was never yours to begin with!_

Elizabeth nodded in apparent agreement. _Never!_

“George, it's me!”

_I pity you_ Ross goaded.

“Nephew, it's your uncle.”

_There it is._

“Listen to me.”

George shook his head and narrowed his angry eyes. “I don't want your pity—”

“Nephew.”

“—I want you in hell!”

“Just—”

_That'll be the day._

“—put the pistol down.”

_You were always an atrocious shot._

“It's me—”

Able to stand things no longer, George gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet somewhere towards Ross, although he could not see quite where it landed due to the sparks and smoke which emanated from his pistol. The noise of the bang rattled the windows and rang in George's ears, snapping him somewhat back to reality.

“_Argh_!” Cary cried, falling to the floor.

Feeling as if he'd awoken from a nightmare, George shakily peered through the smoke, frowning at the absence of anyone before him, only realising after a pause that he was holding a newly discharged firearm.

Taking a moment to make a swift assessment of his condition as he lay on the floor, Cary eventually dared to rise to his feet, fixing his wig and batting off the masonry dust from his shoulder as he did so. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on his troubled nephew, observing how the younger man seemed to regard the smoking pistol in his trembling hand with confusion for some time before dropping it onto the bed and retracting his hand with visible disgust, as if he'd been burned.

Keen to retrieve the weapon before any real damage could be done, Cary staggered towards the four-poster. However, before he could reach out for the pistol a knock sounded on the door, heralding the appearance of Cardy the footman.

“Mr Ralph Hanson to see you, sir,” Cardy advised.

_Just what we need_ Cary lamented to himself.

Seeing a figure approach him, George slowly recognised the face of his kin. He frowned as he tried to recall the memory of the last few moments, taking into account the sight of his uncle's dishevelment and the distress on his face, trying desperately to make sense of what had transpired. “Uncle...” he uttered weakly.

Reclaiming the firearm safely, Cary took a breath and composed himself. “Sir George is _not_ to leave this room,” he ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Cardy obliged.

Still in a state of shock and confusion, George tried again to convey his growing sense of concern at the situation. “Uncle,” he repeated, feeling a sudden stab of guilt as he began to realise what had just transpired.

Hoping against hope that the gunshot had not been heard by their guest, Cary stalked out of the room, leaving Cardy behind to watch over George.

The footman dutifully closed the door and rounded on his heel, looking silently at his master with an expression of pity.

Still trying to make sense of things, George fidgeted where he sat and looked around the room. “I didn't mean to...” he muttered bleakly, feeling a sting in his nostrils from the recently ignited gunpowder that still hung in the air. “I thought— I thought _that man_ was here... I thought he was going to steal my Elizabeth...”

“Perhaps you should rest, sir,” Cardy advised gently, unable to help himself despite protocol.

George looked over towards the footman and furrowed his brow. “You— you were here,” he said. “You _saw_ them. You must tell my uncle that you saw them. Make him understand...”

“Please, sir. Try to get some sleep.”

George shook his head. “No. I—I must make amends,” he said, making a clumsy attempt to get out of bed. “I must speak with my uncle directly...”

With that, George was on his feet and hurtling towards the door at such speed he almost caught Cardy off guard. However, the footman had endured long years of wayward employers and was quick to catch George in his grip before the man could escape. They tussled for a few moments, their feet banging and scrapping on the wooden floor.

“Unhand me!” cried George, though his strength was waning by the moment.

“Come now, sir,”Cardy replied, keenly aware that an important visitor was being entertained downstairs below their very feet. “It does no good to make such noise.”

“This is my house,” George retorted, slumping more and more against the larger man as his legs gradually went from under him. “I—I go where I please...”

“Of course, sir,” Cardy obliged.

Overcome with fatigue, George reluctantly endured the humiliation of having himself be put to bed. As his head hit his luxurious pillow, however, his thoughts turned once more to his beloved Elizabeth, wondering why she would seemingly turn on him after so long – thoughts which followed him as he fell back into a fitful sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broadened account of George's breakdown in Season 5 and the efforts to treat him, starting with Dr Penrose's barbaric tenure, until Dr Dwight Enys mercifully intervenes and offers a more “unorthodox” approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keen to have his nephew swiftly cured so that important negotiations with businessman Ralph Hanson can continue, Cary engages the services of Dr Penrose, summoning the doctor to Trenwith to appraise George.

**Chapter 3**

Caroline Enys' invitation to the great and good of Cornwall to attend her home and sample the company of Colonel Ned Despard's wife, Kitty, had been met with a rash of differing opinions. Some derided the effort as pure folly, whilst others were far less savoury.

For Cary Warleggan, the gathering simply provided an opportunity to be _seen_ and, of course, to hopefully further the family's prospects. The likely attendance of businessman Ralph Hanson – a mahogany trader recently back from Honduras – was one such avenue he intended to exploit. He was keen to keep the man sweet, for their impended deal had the potential to be _very_ profitable, though it was hard to progress whilst George was “away in the North of England”. Why, only the day before Hanson had visited Trenwith, albeit unannounced, to try to push the deal through, only to almost catch George during one of his less lucid moments as he loudly grappled with Cardy upstairs.

Cary winced a little a the memory.

Entering the reception room alone, having left his once again sedated nephew under the close scrutiny of Cardy and Mr Burrow, Cary took a slow turn of the room, scouting out the other guests. He availed himself of a pewter cup of wine, lamenting the fact that without George by his side he lacked his usual _comrade in arms_ . However, it was not long before he caught the attention of one of the less _sanctimonious_ guests.

“Ah! Mr Warleggan,” Mrs Whitworth called.

Cary approached and bowed to the eminent lady, but before he could reciprocate a greeting Mrs Whitworth spoke again.

“Is Sir George with you?”

“He's been... called away to the North on... business.”

Untroubled by Cary's uncharacteristic hesitation, Mrs Whitworth's features pinched. “I trust he's _well armed_. I hear it's quite barbaric.” She then turned to the tall man at her side. “Do you know Doctor Penrose? Incumbent head of the Cornwall Infirmary.”

“I believe another candidate _thrust_ himself forward—,” the doctor derided haughtily despite his local accent betraying his less than gentile background, turning to glare at none other than Dr Dwight Enys, “— but his eccentric views will count against him.”

“Views?” Cary enquired.

“On lunacy, sir,” Penrose obliged. “This individual espouses methods which go against all proven treatments.”

Cary's interest immediately piqued. “_Proven_, you say?”

Dr Penrose smiled as only a man of great confidence and experience would dare and nodded his affirmation.

Just then, the young former bride of Mrs Whitworth's late odious son approached the group and begged the attention of the elder lady, leaving Cary alone in Dr Penrose's company.

“Might I consult with you, sir?” Cary enquired, gently leading the doctor away to a less _exposed_ part of the room, catching a brief glimpse of Hanson out of the corner of his eye as they went – a sight which reminded him of the pressing nature of his endeavour. “On a _private_ matter.”

“Of course,” said Dr Penrose, automatically lowering his voice so that none around would hear.

Choosing a secluded spot near a large window, Cary thought carefully how to frame his next words. “I wonder, doctor, if you might attend my nephew at your earliest convenience?”

Dr Penrose's brow furrowed. “Forgive me, sir, but I thought I heard you say just now that Sir George is away on business in the North?”

Cary winced. _Ah, yes_. “His departure was delayed,” he managed to spin off the top of his head, “due to him being unwell.”

Dr Penrose seemed satisfied with the answer. “Not that I wish to sound unwilling,” he said, “but does he not have a regular physician?”

“Not one with your _particular_ expertise.”

Now it was the doctor's interest that was piqued.

Cary knew it was time to let the proverbial cat out of the bag. “Sir, before I continue I must seek your _absolute_ assurance that our conversation will go no further.”

“Of course.”

Though he detected a tiny hint of something other than professional interest in the doctor's tone, Cary knew he could do nothing but trust the man's integrity. After all, it appeared he was the most learned man on lunacy in these parts by quite some margin.

_ Lunacy_ he mused, wondering how his bright and ruthless young protege had arrived at such a fate.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “My nephew has suffered lately with... episodes of acute distress and confusion.”

“Can you elaborate more?”

Cary reluctantly obliged. “You may be aware that Sir George was widowed some months ago? Well, it seems he is... unwilling to accept that his wife is no longer living. Any attempt to correct him is met with _vehement_ opposition.”

“I see,” mused Dr Penrose. “And these episodes, they include verbal or physical violence?”

Cary nodded. “We've been forced to sedate him on more than one occasion in recent days.”

Dr Penrose considered the proposal for a moment then nodded his head. “You need say no more, Mr Warleggan,” he offered confidently, snatching a swift glance around the vicinity and finding nothing to interest him further. “I am at liberty to attend Trenwith presently, if that is suitable?”

Cary couldn't help but breath a tiny sigh of relief. “That would be _most_ suitable, Doctor.”

The two men left the window and headed straight across the main reception room in the direction of the entrance doors, unaware that their surreptitious flight from the gathering was witnessed by Dr Enys.

“You can rely upon me, sir,” Dr Penrose proffered as the corner of his mouth secretly curled upwards at the thought of such an eminent commission. “I am the _sole_ of discretion.”

*** * ***

Needing only to stop and collect his medical bag from his lodgings, Dr Penrose accompanied Cary back to Trenwith in the Warleggan family carriage. The journey was interspersed with small conversations regarding the intricacies of George's condition, though Cary was reluctant to elaborate too much for fear of speaking out of turn.

Entering the house, Cary and Dr Penrose were met in the hall by another liveried footman, whom relieved them of their outer attire.

“Sir George is upstairs?” Cary enquired, his tone giving no sign that anything was amiss.

The wigged footman nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Cary held out a hand. “This way, doctor.”

The two men began climbing the stairs, though they were met with sounds of commotion before they made it to the top.

“Another episode, I take it,” Dr Penrose concluded.

Cary's face darkened. “It would seem so.”

As they neared the bedchamber George's agitated voice could clearly be heard.

“My wife and I merely wish to rid ourselves of this interminable house for a few hours and take the air in the grounds. Are we to be denied even this small liberty?!”

A scuffle then echoed down the corridor, forcing Cary and Dr Penrose to hasten their steps.

Reaching the door, it took a moment for Cary to open it as there was a weight pressing against the other side. “What in god's name...” he grunted.

After a few moments more the obstruction disappeared, allowing Cary and the doctor to enter the room as a male-voiced cry rang out.

The scene which greeted the two men was a damning verdict in itself of George's questionable grip on reality. He was standing in his nightshirt in the centre of the room directly above the floored figure of Cardy the footman. Dishevelled, George was breathing heavily and sweating profusely, looking as if he'd just completed a gruelling round in the boxing hall, while Cardy was cradling his face.

“George!” Cary boomed. “What have you done?”

Alerted to their presence, George gradually lowered the balled fist he still had poised. “Uncle,” he uttered, looking down at the man on the floor in confusion for a moment before returning his gaze to the two men at the door. “I— Who is this?”

“This is—”

“My name is Doctor Penrose,” the medical man interjected, keen to assert his authority on proceedings. “I have been asked to attend upon you, Sir George, but I fear we've caught you at a difficult moment?”

Discreetly returning to his feet, Cardy the footman held a hand to his nose in an attempt to restrict the blood that was now flowing from reaching the expensive carpet underfoot.

George regarded the taller man, showing a hint of remorse.

“An accident, I'm sure,” Cary drawled.

“Yes...” said George, whom nodded weakly until his attention drifted away towards the window.

“Go and get yourself cleaned up, Cardy,” Cary ordered quietly, allowing the footman to make a swift departure.

Inching towards the room's rather small window, George appeared to forget that he was in company. “It saddens me that Elizabeth has been denied the pleasure of her rose garden this afternoon,” he remarked thinly, holding out a trembling – and now slightly bruised – hand to feel the warmth of a thin shaft of sunlight that was streaming in. “She does so enjoy it...”

Dr Penrose shared a silent glance with Cary, receiving confirmation in the form of a nod that this was very much the problem at hand.

“My mother is dead, you know,” a young voice suddenly uttered from the doorway.

Cary and the doctor turned and came upon Valentine.

“Is that so, young master?” Dr Penrose replied gently.

“She died when my sister was born,” Valentine went on. “Though papa doesn't seem to remember.”

“Valentine, the doctor is here to speak with your father. It would be best if you returned downstairs.”

“I heard someone fighting,” said Valentine. “Was it papa?”

“No,” Cary replied, his tone getting colder. “Now go downstairs and let your father be tended to.”

Remaining still for a moment in a small show of defiance, Valentine eventually turned and left.

“The boy is too curious for his own good sometimes,” Cary offered as he went and closed the bedroom door.

“Aberrant behaviour will often draw attention,” Dr Penrose advised.

Returning his gaze to George, whom was still staring at the window, Cary wished for Dr Penrose's appraisal. “So, do you have a treatment you might prescribe my nephew to rid him of his current malaise?”

Regarding his new patient as if sizing him up, Dr Penrose knew _exactly_ what he intended to do. “I believe have the skills at my disposal to cure Sir George of what ails him.”

“Excellent. When do we begin?”

“We begin immediately.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broadened account of George's breakdown in Season 5 and the efforts to treat him, starting with Dr Penrose's barbaric tenure, until Dr Dwight Enys mercifully intervenes and offers a more “unorthodox” approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr Penrose begins his “treatment” of George, using every purging method he can recall in short order so as to bring about as swift and full a recovery as possible.

**Chapter 4**

The thought of having his nephew cured both quickly and away from public scrutiny was enough for Cary to hand the proverbial reins over to Dr Penrose. He could little imagine how the doctor intended to go about his task, though he'd heard enough stories in his time about the wretched insane to know that anything was better than allowing lunacy to fester in the brain.

Dr Penrose set his large medical bag down on a broad wooden table. He opened the ornate leather case and began to remove various items, placing them side by side in a neat row.

Cary eyed the contents of the bag wearily, swallowing heavily at the sight of a glass jar of tiny black leeches. Like himself, he knew that George had a dislike for medical treatments, knowing too that the younger man had made it a point throughout his life to try and avoid illness so as to limit his need for such interventions.

Having set out his tools, Dr Penrose removed his outer coat and placed it neatly on the back of a chair before rolling up his shirt sleeves and heading over to the nightstand to wash his hands.

Across the room, George seemed unaware of the doctor's ministrations, remaining lost in his thoughts. Aside from the dull ache in his left hand's knuckles, he had little recollection of the past few minutes – or hours, in truth – knowing only that he felt utterly drained of energy.

Turning on his heel as he dried his hands with a small towel, Dr Penrose breathed deeply through his nose then turned to Cary. “Mr Warleggan, it behoves me to enquire if you wish to remain in the room while I administer treatment to Sir George?”

Hardening his weather-beaten features, Cary shot the doctor a hardy look. “You need not concern yourself on my account, doctor,” he replied.

“Very well.”

Dr Penrose strode over to his charge and turned George around, performing a swift visual appraisal. “_Hmm_, yes,” he murmured, cradling George's head in his hands, turning George's face left and right before thumbing open the younger man's eyelids to expose his bloodshot eyes. “There are definite signs that Sir George is under the influence of a disturbed malady.”

Unused to being scrutinised so closely, George attempted to shy away from Dr Penrose's touch.

“Now nephew,” warned Cary, “you must let the doctor perform his duty.”

“It is likely that Sir George will offer more resistance as we progress,” Dr Penrose informed, finally releasing George's head from his hands. “It is my task to break this streak of defiance and restore a more natural order, both in body and spirit.”

Struck by a vein of increased lucidity, George took a step back. “Uncle, there is no need for this... I—I am quite well,” he reasoned weakly.

“So well that you remember assaulting your footman not ten minutes ago?” Dr Penrose challenged.

George frowned. “No... I mean yes, yes—“

“And that is the action of a sane man?”

“It—It was not intentional...”

Cary watched this mini interrogation, recalling memories of his nephew as a boy when he would try and talk his way out of trouble after some misdemeanour. This time, however, he didn't have the luxury of being able to try and pin the blame on one of the Poldark brats.

Bringing the conversation to an intentional crescendo, Dr Penrose stepped forward and grabbed hold of George's narrow wrists, gripping them tightly. “Sir George, you cannot continue to let your actions be guided by such animalistic urges. You must be purged of them without delay.”

Startled by the action, George glanced over to Cary, his expression pleaded. “Uncle, please I—“

“You must get well, George,” Cary decreed. “There are matters which urgently require your attention.”

Eventually bowing to the weight of argument that was confronting him, George eased off his resistance enough to convince Dr Penrose to release his wrists. He then stood and mulled over his situation for some moments, though his features gave away the fact that he knew deep down he had little choice but to submit.

“With your permission, Sir George,” Dr Penrose issued after a suitable pause, giving the impression – though not the opportunity – of choice, “I would like to start by asking you to drink a tonic I have prepared.”

Resigned to his fate, George gave a small, defeated nod.

Keen to seize the momentum, Dr Penrose retrieved a small brown bottle from his effects and poured its contents into a glass. The liquid began to fizz and froth as it was passed to George, whom looked at it warily before reluctantly gulping it back.

Cary breathed a small sigh of relief at his nephew's new-found compliance, though even this first step was somewhat unpleasant to witness given the rather acrid smell of the draft the doctor had issued.

George balked a little as the tonic made its way down into his system, looking suddenly a little green around the gills.

“The tonic will soon induce a purging of the stomach,” Dr Penrose confirmed. “Which is always necessary when clearing the body of infected bile.”

George's eyes widened as he realised what was soon to happen.

“But before it takes effect,” Dr Penrose went on, “there are other matters we need to attend to.”

* * *

Having been relieved of his nightshirt by the doctor, George was guided into his bed and instructed to remain seated, so as to keep his top half accessible whilst also allowing him to be at a proper angle to empty the contents of his stomach once the purging tonic took hold.

Cary continued his mute observation of the proceedings, noting how the taught muscles of his nephew's sinewy body – the product of many years of training with his boxing master – began to contract and spasm as he battled against the urge to vomit.

After thoughtfully furnishing George with a ceramic bowl, Dr Penrose returned to his effects and lit a small gas burner lamp, whose flame flickered into life. He then picked up a small rounded glass cup and began to run the rim of the cup across the flame. “This is a technique from the orient,” he explained. “It helps to release poisoned vapours from under the skin.”

Returning to George with the glass cup and lamp, Dr Penrose held both to George's back, building up a small vacuum inside the cup with the flame until it suctioned itself onto George's skin like a barnacle to a ship's hull.

George made a small noise of discomfort at the back of his throat, though he was becoming more and more focused on the swirling fire that was lurching in his stomach.

Dr Penrose repeated the action several times, leaving the cups on George's back for some minutes before peeling them off painfully. He then moved on to a second instrument, a metal blade of some kind, which he held in the flame until the metal began to glow orange.

Enduring the doctor's treatment in grim silence, George hated even more the feeling of nausea which was consuming him, keeping his eyes closed as his vision began to swim. He felt hot and uncomfortable in the extreme, feeling the sweat that was forming on the back of his neck begin to trickle down his back. He winced and hummed low moans as the doctor inflicted burn after burn onto his skin, stooping forward as his nerves stung with each sharp pain.

Across the room, Cary didn't like the sight of the welts and blisters that were beginning to cover his nephew's skin, watching several thin trails of blood as they trickled downwards. Less still was his regard for Dr Penrose's next tactic, which involved the small black creatures living in the glass jar he'd spied earlier.

Unencumbered by a similar revulsion for the leeches, Dr Penrose delicately extracted several in turn and placed them on George's body where blood had been drawn. It did not take long for the tiny creatures to begin gorging themselves.

Unable to fight his nausea any longer George began to vomit, launching mouthfuls of bile with little dignity into the bowl in his lap, barely holding himself upright as his arms trembled.

Satisfied that the leeches had had their fill, Dr Penrose began to retrieve them one by one from his charge's feverish and heaving body. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Cary shift uneasily on his feet and sought to quell the elder man's apprehensions.

“These will relieve the melancholic congestion of the brain,” he offered as he extracted the last leech from a particularly angry looking wound on George's right shoulder. “Blistering will draw out the noxious humours. Bleeding will expunge the mafitted matter _rioting_ in the bloodstream.” He then held up the small brown bottle that contained his vomit-inducing tonic. “And this decoction of lacroma papivarus will subdue the animal spirits which have seized the patient in their grip.”

As Dr Penrose uncorked the stopper and began to pour a second helping of tonic into a glass, a knock on the door was heard.

Cardy the footman entered and handed Cary a note. “From Wheal Plenty, sir.”

Distantly registering the name of his mine, George raised his head and attempted to enquire, though he only managed to emit a low groan as his mouth remained tightly closed to discourage further vomiting.

Cary opened the note with a flourish of his hand and looked down, feeling a sudden cold stab in the pit of his stomach as he digested the words.

_Of all the time for this to happen..._

Without a word, Cary left the room in haste, knowing that if he didn't attend to the matter immediately it would spell even more trouble for the family empire. As he left, he was forced to dodge a small figure that was stood in the shadow of the door.

Watching his uncle leave, George paused as he spotted his son standing forlornly in the doorway, seeing that the young boy's eyes were filled with confusion and pity.

Dr Penrose also noted Valentine's presence and quietly walked over to the door, closing it so as to rid both the boy and his patient of unnecessary distress. He then fetched up the tonic he'd prepared and walked over to George's bedside.

Upon both seeing and smelling the arrival of the glass, George held up a shaky hand and shook his head in an effort to refuse, inducing another wave of nausea to rear its ugly head.

“Sir George, I require you to drink this,” Dr Penrose countered.

George wished that he could scream his refusal in the doctor's face, reviling the fact that he'd been so quickly reduced to such a pitiful state.

_Come now, George. You must do as the doctor instructs._

Recognising the voice immediately, George looked around the room, finally spotting his beloved wife over Dr Penrose's shoulder. Elizabeth!

_Please, my darling. The sooner it is over, the sooner we can go out and enjoy the fresh air._

Not needing to check over his shoulder to know that they were otherwise alone, Dr Penrose knew from years of working with the afflicted that his patient was attempting to relapse into one of his troubling habits. “Forgive me, Sir George,” he said, taking hold of the slick scruff of hair at the base of his head and pulling his head back, “but I am afraid I must _insist_.”

With his experience and superior strength Dr Penrose forced George to swallow the tonic, only taking a step back when George began to splutter and cough anew.

“This _wilfulness_ will not serve you whilst you're under my care, Sir George,” Dr Penrose warned.

Enraged that the doctor would dare to use such force on him, George mined his own senses until he found a vein of strength to issue a glare to the man standing over him. His strength did not last, however, and he soon clutched his stomach as a painful spasm took hold, grimacing as he braced himself for another bout of misery.

* * *

Returning to his nephew's room some time later, Cary found himself met by something of a quieter scene, though it was no less unnerving. George was lying half-curled amidst his dishevelled bedsheets, gently shivering despite the sheen of sweat that covered his pock-marked skin, emitting the odd low moan in exhaustion. The smell of the tonic and vomit still permeated the air, making Cary's nose tingle.

Unhappy to see the lack of any tangible progress, Cary sought the attention of Dr Penrose, whom was busy scribbling notes into a small leather-bound book.

“What news, doctor?”

“Sir George thus far remains in the grip of his insanity,” Dr Penrose replied, closing his book and replacing it in his pocket. “In response, I have taken leave to ask your house staff to furnish me with what I require next.”

“Which is?”

A knock on the door provided the answer, heralding the arrival of two footmen carrying a rather utilitarian-looking tin bath between them. Following them was Lucy the maid, whom was holding two metal buckets, one filled with water and one filled with ice blocks.

Cary frowned.

The footmen placed the bath in the middle of the carpet. Lucy then deposited her two buckets into the bath, her somewhat sullen face showing her displeasure at the thought of having to repeat the chore several more times before the bath was sufficiently filled.

“Cardy, Lambert, give Lucy a hand to carry up more water and ice,” Cary instructed, receiving nothing but a small huff from the impudent girl.

“Yes, sir,” the men replied in unison.

Cary stalked about the room as the staff gradually filled the bath with water and ice, lamenting the doctor's instruction that the fire burning in the fireplace also be doused to lower the temperature in the room further.

When the bath was ready for use Dr Penrose resumed command of the room. He ordered the two footmen to extricate George from his bed and place his naked body into the icy water, rolling up his sleeves further as he watched them carry out the task.

Cary suffered in involuntary shiver as his nephew was lowered into the freezing bath, watching the younger man's eyes widen suddenly and his breathing quicken with the shock. He knew that such an undignified situation, and one that was now involving more and more household staff, would be unbearable to George were he his usual self, making the ordeal that much more humiliating.

“This therapy is widely used both here and in Europe,” Dr Penrose informed as he took up a position at the head of the bath behind George, dismissing the two footmen from the chamber. “The inducement of shock and discomfort is a powerful tonic to the infected mind.”

Placing his hands on George's shoulders, Dr Penrose proceeded to push down hard, submerging George completely under the icy water, holding his flailing patient under for a long count before allowing him to resurface.

Spluttering out the water he'd unwittingly swallowed before taking several gulps of much needed air, George then started to emit a piercing series of distressed cries as he began to visibly convulse from the effects of the cold – cries which echoed throughout the house.

All too soon, Dr Penrose repeated the move, holding George under with a hand on top of his head, only allowing him back up after another long count. “For a man of Sir George's stubbornness,” he said, forcing George back under the water a third time, taking no heed of the weak attempts of George to bat him away, “conventional treatments have no effect. A more robust approach is thus required.”

George's hands clung to the sides of the bath, his knuckles white from strain as he tried to claw himself out. When he was eventually allowed to resurface he shook his head violently, resuming his strained moans through chattering teeth.

Cary watched on with growing discomfort as the doctor proceeded to submerge his nephew with alarming pace and regularly, barely giving the younger man time to take a few precious breaths before pushing him back under. Water bilged over the sides of the bath as the ordeal went on, forcing the doctor to push even harder in order to get George's head fully under.

It was only when the vehemence of George's resistance began to fade that Dr Penrose eased up on his tempo, with both men suffering the strains of prolonged exertion.

“Perhaps my nephew has had enough for now?” Cary ventured, hoping that the ordeal might finally stop.

Sensing that George was on the cusp of passing out, Dr Penrose relented, releasing his patient's shoulders from his iron grip.

Utterly exhausted, George's head lulled to one side as his breath became shallow. Without a guiding support he began to gradually slip under the water of his own accord, forcing Dr Penrose to fish him back out and hold him steady.

“Cardy, your assistance is required,” Cary boomed, summoning the footman from his sentry post outside the closed door.

Cardy appeared and helped Dr Penrose to lift a limp George out of the bath and dry him off, though the doctor seemed little concerned about his rather rough bedside manner in comparison to Cardy's more compassionate efforts.

Cary didn't have to touch his nephew's pale skin to know that he was chilled to the very bone, observing a blue tinge about George's lips in addition to looming dark circles around his eyes as Dr Penrose and Cardy dressed him back into his nightshirt and walked him over to his bed.

When George was lying still, Dr Penrose took out a small bottle of smelling salts from his pocket and held it under George's nose, inducing a lethargic moan from his patient as he briefly stirred. In his delirium, George began to whisper something unintelligible, forcing Dr Penrose to lean down and place his ear close to George's quivering lips.

“E—Elizabeth...”

Dr Penrose lip snarled briefly as he encountered yet more defiance.

“What does my nephew say?”

“Sir George refuses to give in,” Dr Penrose concluded dimly. “I fear this leaves me with no choice but to increase my efforts yet again.”

“To what end?” Cary asked, fearing what he might be about to hear.

Not wishing to appear beaten, Dr Penrose rose to his full height and placed his hands on his hips. “Perhaps now is the best time for you to allow me to tend to Sir George without your supervision, sir,” he issued. “Some treatments are difficult for even the most hardy of men to witness.”

Feeling his stomach drop, Cary looked down at his prone nephew for a moment as he contemplated the request. What could possibly be done that was worse than had already been attempted?!

“Have no fear, Mr Warleggan,” Dr Penrose conceded, having sensed that he was close to loosing his commission. “My only interest is to restore Sir George to his former self. Though the methods I employ may be harsh to the eye, I remind you that they have been proven to work many times over the years.”

Sighing heavily, Cary gave a curt nod of his head and headed towards the door at pace. “Do what you must, doctor,” he issued over his shoulder, swallowing heavily as the image of his nephew's unresponsive face remained burned into his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broadened account of George's breakdown in Season 5 and the efforts to treat him, starting with Dr Penrose's barbaric tenure, until Dr Dwight Enys mercifully intervenes and offers a more “unorthodox” approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desperate to succeed, Dr Penrose tries to brutalise George into submission before resorting to the use of restraints.

**Chapter 5**

_If he never had a bath again it would be too soon_.

Hovering just outside the blessed bounds of unconsciousness, George wondered what he'd done to deserve such agonising torment. Though it was true he'd begrudgingly assented to tolerate Dr Penrose's ministrations, he never imagined that he would be forced to endure such a slew of painful degradations the likes of which even _he'd_ be hard pressed to bestow upon his enemies – well, unless it was Ross, of course. Every nerve in his still gently shivering body felt frayed as it recovered from its latest assault, giving him such a profound sense of weakness, and indeed vulnerability, that he almost felt nauseous anew – for such self-pitying attributes were _not_ those that were admired by the Warleggans. And yet, he was beginning to grimly wonder how much more he could take.

Opening his heavy eyelids a fraction, George tried and failed to get his vision to focus, seeing only light and dark shapes that shifted like smoke before his eyes. He could no longer even see the face of his beloved Elizabeth, nor feel her usual warm presence in the increasingly claustrophobic confines of their marital chamber, making him instantly nervous as to her whereabouts. _Where had she gone?_

Across the room, a seated Dr Penrose was privately contemplating his next course of action with a small sense of apprehension, knowing that it would likely either bring his stubborn charge finally to heel, or send the man further into the murky depths of his melancholic fever. He'd been left in no doubt by Mr Warleggan senior that a swift and full recovery of his nephew was desired, nay _expected_, and that anything less would be viewed very dimly indeed.

_If only madness were a less fickle adversary_.

Having seen no improvement come from the emetic tonic, the skin purgings or even the water therapy, Dr Penrose concluded that further brutalisation was the only way to instil in his patient the proper sense of fear and dread that was required – for it was a proven cornerstone in lunatic medicine that a wilful patient brought successfully to a state of docile subordination better adhered to the rational instruction of the presiding doctor.

He looked across the room and regarded a second weighty medical bag he'd hastily summoned with a discreet note to his lodgings that afternoon. He considered going straight to the shackles, a method which even the King himself was known to have undergone extensively to curb his insanity. However, in Dr Penrose's experience the use of restraints without first sufficiently dispelling a patient's alien impulses promised little in the way of tangible results – and it was _results_ that he sorely needed right now.

Keen for a salient insight, he thought back to an afflicted sailor he'd seen being treated back when he was a training Navy doctor, recalling how the man's uncurbed madness almost endangered the lives of several of those aboard the ship until he was confronted by an equal level of barbarism, receiving one of the most brutal floggings ever witnessed by the crew. Such violent treatment seemed madness in itself, until the sailor immediately ceased his dangerous lunatic antics and gained a passive countenance that endured for the rest of the voyage. Though Dr Penrose knew that it was undoubtedly the sailor's _un-gentile_ heritage which explained his ability to bear such harsh physical trauma, he'd also witnessed through his years of practising medicine in higher society that people of Sir George's class were also surprisingly resilient when confronted with a suitably _appropriate_ application of physical discomfort. It was merely a question of delivery.

A breathy moan and a shuffle of movement from across the room brought Dr Penrose back to the task at hand. Renewed in confidence, he made his way over to his bag and pulled out a leather apron-like garment of his own design – something he'd developed over the years to _'alleviate the risk of leaving unnecessary physical marks following the application of stripes or blows_ ' upon his more _esteemed_ patients. He then sank his hand into the bag a second time a retrieved a small, smooth-surfaced wooden bludgeon, which was similar in size and shape to the truncheons carried by local keepers of the peace, tucking the item safely inside his belt.

Stirring in his bed, George sought to sit up now that the numbness from the frigid water was finally leaving his bones, though his movements were almost drunken in nature as he tried to get his bearings. Successfully propping himself up with one shaking arm, he raked a pale hand through his dampened, wayward hair, feeling his nightshirt stick uncomfortably to his fevered skin in several places due to the sheen of cold sweat that now covered him.

Dr Penrose spotted his patient's renewal of vitality and gathered up his self-crafted leather apron, heading with it towards the four-poster bed.

Despite the rolling fog inside his head, George was keen to determine the whereabouts of Elizabeth. To this end, he was of a growing mind to have the doctor and his instruments of misery dismissed when he next appeared, no matter _what_ his uncle might say, as his willingness to acquiesce had disappeared – along with his _pride_ – into the icy water that had nearly sought to claim him. The only issue he could foresee was his lack of energy, as the day's activities had almost completely drained him, though even this problem was not entirely insurmountable given the amount of times he'd advanced in life through the application of mere conviction of voice alone.

_The doctor merely needs to _ _ know _ _ who is in charge._

Dr Penrose remained silent as he helped his groggy patient to rise from his bed, holding the younger man's arms as he stood up on trembling legs.

“Uncle?” George uttered, his eyes still not fully opened.

“No, I am not your uncle, Sir George,” Dr Penrose replied, welcoming the tell-tale flex of tension he felt in the man's arms at the sound of his voice. He then placed the sleeveless leather garment over George's head without explanation, utilising his patient's current befuddlement to prepare him sufficiently without causing undue alarm.

Growing more aware that he was being physically manhandled, George frowned and began to squirm. “Wait – where is my uncle? Where is my wife...”

Undeterred, Dr Penrose set to work fastening the apron to George's body via two brass buckles that ran down the side. “Your wife is no longer with us, Sir George.”

George felt a sudden stab of fear – a feeling which temporarily overrode the uncomfortable sensation of being strapped into something against his will. “What? Where is she? Where is Elizabeth?! Sh—She was here not an hour ago...”

“You must not persist in this fantasy,” Dr Penrose warned, tightening the bindings of the garment with several stout tugs.

“What _fantasy_ ?” George argued, nursing a rash of heat in the pit of his stomach in response to the doctor's apparent snub. “Elizabeth is _my_ wife, not Poldark's!”

Dr Penrose found the mention of the Poldark name curious. He wondered if there was something in the history of the two families which was causing Sir George to react irrationally – though it mattered little now that he was about to _reacquaint_ his patient with his former faculties.

“If you do not yield to me, Sir George,” he said cooly, crowding his slighter patient's personal space with his imposing frame, “and allow yourself to be rid of the animal spirits which are clearly still raging in your blood, I will have it so that you are restrained and confined indefinitely. This behaviour _cannot_ continue any more.”

“Who are _you_ to lecture _me_?” George managed to hiss, jutting out his chin in defiance. It was a flash of his former self that even caught him a little by surprise.

Dr Penrose responded by raising his own chin haughtily. “As a doctor who deals with lunatic conditions on an almost daily basis,” he intoned curtly, “I feel more than qualified in issuing my opinion, _sir_.”

The mention of 'lunatic conditions' made George draw up his lip in revulsion. “This is absurd. I wish to go and find my wife...” He pushed Dr Penrose weakly away and took step back, making an effort to shirk and prise off the leather apron to no avail.

Lowering his head and letting out a small resigned sigh, Dr Penrose reluctantly reached for the bludgeon in his belt. “Your wife is not here, Sir George,” he said plainly. “Your wife is dead.”

The bewildered yet belligerent expression on George's face left Dr Penrose unsure as to whether his patient had digested the statement, prompting him to repeat it with added zeal after grabbing George by the collar, shaking the younger man roughly for good measure to ram home his point. “She is _gone_, sir!”

Despite the beads of sweat that were forming on his brow and lip, George grasped the doctor's large paw that still held him and sneered resiliently as he came to a new conclusion in his mind. “Your ruse is clever,” he said, believing that the doctor was now in cahoots with those whom wish to see him and Elizabeth separated for good. “Perhaps Ross himself even paid you to come here and spin such a tale in order to finally gain his prize. However, you should know that my wife is loyal to me. As I am to her. Now, let me out of this damned jacket and get _out_ of my house!”

Dr Penrose observed the flash of anger with a withered eye, having seen such deluded outbursts many times before, realising too for the first time that Sir George favoured his left hand – another _sinister_ sign of inherent abnormality of the brain. He let go of the younger man, but instead of backing off he suddenly slapped his patient viciously across the face with the back of his hand, taking care to avoid the nose.

Startled, George winced as he smarted from the unexpected strike.

“You will yield to me, sir,” Dr Penrose advised darkly, tensing his arm that held the bludgeon as he grabbed the back of George's neck with his other hand. “You _will_ yield...”

*** * ***

Downstairs, Cary Warleggan had spent the past half hour pacing back and forth across the breadth of the drawing room with his hands clasped behind his back, his curmudgeonly face laced with deep lines. He was starting to get the feeling that he was somehow being _tested_ today, given everything that was happening both at Trenwith and the Wheal Plenty mine. To top things off, he was being routinely hounded by the boy Valentine, whom seemed incapable of remaining out of sight as instructed.

_If I had my way, boy, you'd be taught to _ _ respect _ _ your elders._

The continuing silence from upstairs was unnerving Cary almost as much as the sound of his nephew's previous howls. He'd left Dr Penrose in no doubt that he had permission to do whatever it took to rid his protege of his madness, and yet he couldn't help but nurse a growing sense of doubt. The ordeal of the ice bath had left a lasting impression on him, making him wonder if the doctor was perhaps reaching the limits of his expertise – something which he didn't want to contemplate right now.

“Uncle Cary,” Valentine voiced.

Hearing the boy speak behind him, Cary forced himself to turn around and offer his nephew's heir his begrudging attention.

“I wish to see my father.”

“Now young Valentine, I have already told you that your father is presently indisposed and busy being attended by Doctor Penrose.”

“Then why was papa screaming before?”

Cary moved his jaw like he was chewing a wasp. “Your father did not _scream_.”

“He did!” Valentine exclaimed. “I heard him. Everyone heard him.”

Uneasy at the thought, Cary sought to _muddy_ the truth. “What you _heard_, young man, was simply the wind running through the house. Trenwith is an old coastal estate with many long corridors and and unsealed windows. During the winter months quite a draught can build up.”

Valentine scowled incredulously at the explanation.

Knowing his argument was paper thin, Cary lost patience with the conversation. “Bessie!” he boomed, waiting for the young nursemaid to appear from the other room holding baby Ursula as always. “Bessie, take this child away.”

“You cannot stop me from seeing papa,” Valentine challenged menacingly.

Cary straightened to his full, towering height. “Oh, I think I can, _Master_ Valentine.”

Resisting the gentle tug on his shoulder from Bessie, Valentine stared at his great uncle for as long as he could, until the older man finally broke the impasse and turned his back.

“Impudent whelp”, Cary murmured under his breath as the boy was reluctantly led away, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the cries which had disturbed the boy would resume imminently.

*** * ***

The first blow delivered to George hit him square in the solar plexus, rendering him temporarily mute as the breath was knocked out of him. It was only after the second blow landed in his ribcage that he released an involuntary howl of pain, spluttering as he fought vainly to maintain his footing. Doubling over, he folded his arms protectively across his stomach, falling to his knees as a third flash of pain tore across his shoulder blades.

Landing half a dozen calculated blows with practised precision, Dr Penrose paused briefly to observe his patient, watching out for the tell-tale signs of submission. When none were forthcoming he resumed his assault, keeping his aim focused to the areas of George's body that were covered by the leather garment.

With his body's usual 'fight-or-flight' reflex weakened from the day's ordeals, George was effectively rendered powerless and unable to resist the barrage of strikes which reigned down upon him, offering nothing in his own defence except one pain-filled cry after another. He wished for some kind of intervention, not caring as to how it might come about.

After delivering another set of blows, Dr Penrose stood over his cowering patient and grabbed a handful of hair on the back of his head, raising the man's face to meet his own. “Will you yield?” he asked, hoping for Sir George's sake that he gave in.

Breathing heavily through his nose, George locked his jaw tight and drew his expression into an angry sneer, looking up to his tormentor with wide, wild eyes.

“Very well,” Dr Penrose lamented, pulling George back up to his feet via the scruff of hair in his grip.

*** * ***

When the first strained cry echoed hauntingly throughout the house, Cary closed his eyes and exhaled deeply through his nose. As the wailing howls began to increase in both regularity and volume, pervading the stale air of Trenwith House like ebbing waves, he came to the conclusion that the household was going to be in for a long and miserable evening ahead.

Leaving the plethora of mine maps and hand-written correspondence he'd been poring over – relegating the wholly inconvenient issue of the mine collapse at Wheal Plenty to the back of his mind – he resumed his pacing of the drawing room, wincing occasionally in response to the noises coming from upstairs, toying with the idea of whether to go up and relieve the doctor of his commission before it was too late. The sound of his nephew's profound distress secretly made his blood run cold – even more so now that he was removed from the room and unable to see what was causing the younger man to scream so desperately.

Entering the drawing room in his usual silent manner, Cardy the footman approached Cary with a sealed letter on a silver tray.

Cary snatched the letter without a word, ripping open the wax seal as the boy once again hovered at the door.

“I _want_ to speak to _papa_!” Valentine demanded, looking at his great uncle expectedly for a moment before stomping off when the older man failed to give him even the slightest bit of attention.

Cary read the letter as best he could, trying to ignore both the cries of his nephew upstairs and baby Ursula in the next room, who had started to wail yet again in response to the noise of her father. “Demand... that mine owners take steps... to effect a rescue,” he recited, feeling a swell of anger in his chest. “These people!”

Petulantly scrunching the letter into a tiny ball, hating the fact that he'd been left to sort out the mess by himself, Cary stalked over to the fire and unceremoniously flung the summons into the flames. “Rescue be damned,” he growled.

*** * ***

Dr Penrose breathed heavily as he took a pause from his work, feeling the burn in his muscles from his exertions. Wiping a hand across his brow, he found that he was sweating a little – not an uncommon occurrence when he was engaged in sanctioned brutalising. He'd kept a careful account of the number of blows he'd administered to his patient, memorising a few other observations too in readiness for when he noted the session in his ledger.

Meanwhile, a trembling George remained on the floor of his bedchamber, breathing in shallow lungfuls of air, taking care to not make any necessary sound or movement.

Having witnessed a subtle mellowing in his patient's behaviour during the last few minutes – though no concrete evidence of a breakthrough as he would have preferred – Dr Penrose thought it high time he progressed to the next level of treatment, especially since he knew he'd already administered more strikes to Sir George than he had to any other patient in such a short space of time.

He walked over to his large medical bag and sequestered his trusty bludgeon, feeling a sting in the hard calluses that littered his palm. He then pulled out a knotted web of heavy leather binding straps and several lengths of rope.

Over the next few minutes, Dr Penrose reclaimed his leather apron from George's exhausted body and manoeuvred his patient back onto the bed. He lashed George's feet together and tied the end onto one of the bed posters, taking care to make sure that each knot was secure. He then started to methodically thread the web of straps around George's upper body, hearing no word of protest from his patient other than the odd gentle moan. As he came to fix the buckles of the leather restraints the door of the bedchamber opened gently.

“Forgive my intrusion, doctor,” Cary offered.

“Not at all, Mr Warleggan,” Dr Penrose replied, assenting to the man's entrance with a nod of his head.

Cary closed the door behind him and approached the bed warily, taking in the stark sight of his now almost catatonic nephew lying in shackles. “This is... inhuman,” he declared in a rare tone of honesty, observing the way George was murmuring incoherently to himself.

Dr Penrose continued to fix the restraint's buckles. “As is the patient,” he advised. “A lunatic, you see, has lost all reason, which is the essence of his humanity. His unchained animality can only be mastered by discipline and brutalising.”

Cary eyed the doctor as he spoke, noting the flush colour of the man's face and the rough manner in which he tightened the straps of the shackles, feeling suddenly compelled to vacate the room.

Satisfied that his patient was now secure, Dr Penrose gave the younger man a cursory once over by thumbing open his eyelids, watching the way George's blue eyes rolled up into his forehead. He then rose and followed Cary out of the room, pulling the door to behind him.

In the corridor, Cary was practically bouncing from foot to foot. “So, what is to be done now?” he implored, checking briefly over his shoulder to make sure that the boy was not in earshot. “Will my nephew have to be committed to an institution?!”

Dr Penrose raised a calming hand. “Sir George will remain in restraints and confined to his room for the night,” he explained. “My intention now is to start him upon a new regime which will dictate everything in his day, from the food he eats to the hours in which he sleeps.”

“But for how _long_, doctor?!” Cary growled, staring at George's prone body through the crack in the door.

Dr Penrose attempted to rise above the question with a condescending sigh as he slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. “I'd be obliged if you could give these instructions to your kitchen. I must also ask you to instruct the rest of your staff that Sir George is _not_ to be spoken to or disturbed without expressed permission.”

Cary took the piece of paper reluctantly, knowing that he had little choice but to continue trusting the doctor. “Will you be staying the night?”

Dr Penrose gave a curt shake of his head. “Now that Sir George is subdued I will take my leave and head back to my lodgings. Unless you should send for me sooner, I will return in the morning. In the mean time, I ask you make sure the bedchamber fire remains unlit and the room kept free of noise.”

Nodding his understanding, Cary turned on his heel and headed downstairs, leaving the doctor alone to pack up this things, praying with every footstep that he had made the right decision.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A broadened account of George's breakdown in Season 5 and the efforts to treat him, starting with Dr Penrose's barbaric tenure, until Dr Dwight Enys mercifully intervenes and offers a more “unorthodox” approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chancing an escape, George flees Trenwith in search of Elizabeth.

**Chapter 6**

Valentine Warleggan knew he had the measure of Trenwith House better than anyone else living there. Since before even his mother died he could slip out unnoticed on a whim, utilising any number of doors that were at best poorly attended and mostly ignored.

_Just like me_, he mused dimly.

Crossing the large stretch of open grass outside the house, the young boy with wild dark hair and 'little gentleman' clothing soon found the vast glen of canopied woodland that separated Trenwith estate from the rest of the county. He liked walking outside, though he missed the company of friends like Morwenna, or his mama. The path towards Sawle village was one he knew well, and he soon found himself following the well-trodden path, giving scant thought to the fact that Bessie the nurse nor anyone else knew where he was or where he was going.

Grabbing at the odd blade of tall wild grass, Valentine tried but failed to conjure up the battles and highway robberies that normally diverted him. Though it was a relief to finally be out of the house and away from horrible Uncle Cary and the suspicious doctor, he'd been in an increasingly dark mood all day, what with his little sister constantly crying and his father... well, he didn't really understand what _exactly_ was happening to his father.

In truth, Valentine was worried for his papa, and had been for some time. His father's increasingly strange behaviour over the past few weeks, not least his growing insistence on talking to his mama as if she were still there, confused him immensely.

_Does he _ _ really _ _ not remember that Mama died? Can he not see that she is gone?_

When Uncle Cary had returned home with a doctor, Valentine had hoped that the man might help his papa, but he only seemed to be making him more and more ill by the hour. Indeed, when his papa had begun crying out in pain, he'd wanted to go into his parent's bedchamber and tell the doctor to stop, or at least try something else – a powder, for instance, as they always seemed to work whenever he was ill. Such feelings of empathy were a little bit of a surprise to Valentine, given that he often resented his father for his lack of interest in him. Sometimes, he'd imagined himself living in a different place with different parents, like Uncle Ross and Demelza. He yearned for company, and conversation, and friends – things apparently to be denied to him under his father's roof.

And yet, now that his papa was ill and no longer exerting such imperious charge over the rest of the house, Valentine could see for the first time how much he missed Mama, a feeling they both shared – though Valentine had learned to hide his own grief long ago.

Coming to a clearing in the woodland, Valentine felt a small lift from the bucolic scene of a simple wood-built stable. He enjoyed the company of animals, and could smell the earthy scent of the horses and goats that were nearby.

“Good afternoon, goats,” he murmured as he approached the pen, his voice still rather miserable, climbing up the fence to get a better look. He lowered a hand, allowing one of the goats to sniff it, seeing the disappointment in the animal's face when it realised he had no food to offer. “Have you been left alone too?”

“Valentine?” a voice suddenly called behind him.

Valentine turned and saw the welcome sight of his brother. “Geoffrey Charles!” he exclaimed, jumping off the pen and enveloping himself in the warm embrace of his elder kin.

“What are you doing here?” asked Geoffrey Charles once they'd broken off their hug, holding onto his little brother's shoulders with an expression of both kindness and concern. “Are you alone? Where's your nurse?”

“I wanted to go for a walk,” Valentine relied. “Bessie is busy with my sister.”

Geoffrey Charles frowned. “I'm surprised your father let you go out alone.”

Valentine sighed and averted his gaze. “Father is busy too...”

A young lady in a beautiful blue gown approached the half-brothers. Valentine thought she looked like an angel.

Geoffrey Charles smiled. “Ah, Valentine, let me introduce you to Miss Cecily Hanson. She and her father are visiting Cornwall for the first time.”

Seeing the affectionate look in his brother's eyes, Valentine held out a hand, smiling when the lady accepted it. “Good afternoon, Miss Hanson.”

“Good afternoon to you too,” the lady replied sweetly, adding, it seemed, for the benefit of Geoffrey Charles, “I hear your father has recently travelled to the north of England. You must miss him.”

Valentine appeared vexed for a moment.

Miss Hanson noticed. “My father visited your home earlier today and was informed so by your father's uncle.”

“Oh,” was all that Valentine could manage, unsure as to what was going on.

“Come, brother, let us walk with you back to Trenwith,” Geoffrey Charles offered kindly, acknowledging the low angle of the sun in the sky.

Valentine felt something tighten in his stomach. He shook his head. “No, I don't want to go back! Not yet.” He wondered if he should defy Uncle Cary and tell Geoffrey Charles about what was happening to his father, though he knew there was little love lost between the pair, especially since their mama's death.

“Uncle Cary will be wondering where you are.”

“No he won't,” Valentine replied forlornly.

The words seemed to have an effect on Geoffrey Charles, stirring up old wounds.

“Can I not go wherever you're going?” Valentine chanced, deploying the 'puppy-dog' eyes his mother always used to say were irresistible. He watched his brother look at Miss Hanson, silently asking her thoughts – or was it her permission?

“Very well, little brother,” Geoffrey Charles finally assented. “We were on our way to visit Uncle Ross at Nampara. I should think that you might be welcome also.”

Valentine's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Nampara and Uncle Ross. He soon realised that his enthusiasm must have shown on his face, judging from the smiles of his new companions.

“Come,” said Geoffrey Charles. “Let us go before it gets dark.”

The thought of being free from Trenwith House and it's oppressive atmosphere even longer overrode Valentine's reservations about effectively leaving his papa to fend for himself against the machinations of Uncle Cary and the doctor. Being so small he knew he'd be of little help anyway, save for perhaps telling someone at Nampara what was going on behind closed doors? But whom could he tell? Whom had his father _not_ quarrelled or feuded with in the past? Whom could be trusted to help?

*** * ***

Having taken his leave of his nephew for now, Cary knew it was his duty to bring the house up to speed with the new regime set by Dr Penrose. To that end, he sought out the head of the household staff - a search which did not take long given that Mr burrow was a creature of habit.

“Ah, Burrow, there you are,” he said, entering the man’s pantry as he was decanting a rather fine bottle of port. “Doctor Penrose will be leaving us now until tomorrow morning. He asks that this,” he held up the note recently left into his care by the man in question, “be followed by the cook. He also instructs that Sir George be left _strictly_ in peace for the remainder of the day, save for any salient reason you or I give our expressed permission for. I trust you will appraise the rest of the house as to these arrangements.”

Mr Burrow nodded. “Of course, sir.”

“Good,” Carry affirmed. Turning on his heel he made to leave the pantry, until a thought crossed his mind which stalled him at the door. “Also, when you've finished with the port, I'd ask you to visit Sir George's room and re-light the fire,” he issued flatly, “only it appears that Doctor Penrose forgot to do so before he left.”

Looking a little put-out at being asked to do such a menial task that was normally the domain of the maids, Mr Burrow nonetheless nodded his assent.

Feeling a fraction happier now that he'd intervened and gained a tiny victory over the unpleasant situation, Cary then left the panty, heading upstairs with the intention of sitting down for a while.

Reaching the ground floor, however, Cary's hopes of a rest were instantly dashed when Cardy the footman informed him of the return of Ralph Hanson to Trenwith.

Taking a deep breath, Cary entered the main hall to find Hanson handing over his effects to Lucy the maid, lamenting the fact that the mahogany magnate had convened yet again to arrive at an inopportune moment. _At least the good port was uncorked_.

“I come to offer congratulations,” Hanson offered sardonically. “Fourteen souls saved at Wheal Plenty!” He threw his gloves thoughtlessly into his hat, paying the waiting maid no mind at all.

“Oh! Ahh, _umm_ ... well—” Cary muttered, watching Lucy closely as she left the room to check she was not giving away anything on her face. He then surreptitiously gazed out the window to check for the imminently departing Dr Penrose, wondering if the doctor and Hanson had crossed paths on the gravel, hoping against hope that the two men had _not_ met lest the delicate charade he'd been conjuring all day be shattered through some ill-timed comment.

“Another masterstroke,” Hanson went on, apparently ignorant to Cary's predicament. “And Cecily being a sentimental soul will warm to Sir George if she believes it was _his_ idea.”

Masking his lapse in attention just in time, Cary struggled for a moment to re-engage the more _calculating_ part of his brain before pulling a knowingly blithe expression of his own. “Which... _of course_ it was.”

Hanson offered a lizard-like half-smile, clearly appreciating the fact that he and Cary were two men who's minds operated in the same way. Cary wondered if his nephew would one day take such unbridled pleasure in marrying off Ursula for personal gain as Hanson appeared to enjoy with his daughter Cecily, having observed that the younger man's zeal for advancement had dimmed a little since his wife's death.

“Speaking of my daughter,” said Hanson, “I wonder if now is suitable to speak more on the matter of her betrothal to Sir George?”

Guessing that Hanson was after simple company as much as the chance to advance his business interests – for _god knows_ decent conversation was wanting elsewhere in the county – Cary resigned himself to hosting the man for possibly the rest of the evening, feeling suddenly a touch relieved that his exhausted nephew was now lying _securely_ upstairs, unable to give himself away.

_Alas, nephew, your subjugation must continue for a while longer._

* * *

Downstairs in the servants hall of Trenwith, Mrs Parslow the cook was busy preparing George's evening meal, having taken receipt of Dr Penrose's instructions from Mr Burrow. Around her hovered the rest of the staff – save for Cardy, who had been posted outside the master bedchamber until further notice, and Mr Burrow, who was attending to the task of re-lighting his master's fire.

“_Oof_, that don't 'alf smell queer!” Lambert derided, wrinkling up his nose as he sniffed over the bubbling pot. “Reminds me of gruel, like what they give 'em wretched souls in the poor 'ouse.”

Mrs Parslow shooed the tall footman away. “'e don't know what 'e's talkin' 'bout. This 'ere is simple porridge. Just what Sir George needs while he be convalescin'.”

Sitting in her characteristically slouched position at the servant's meal table, Lucy remained quiet as she picked idly at a small splinter on the table's wooden surface with dry, chapped fingers. Like the rest of the house she'd heard Sir George's howls and cries throughout the afternoon, wondering if he was going to be carted away to the mad-house. She thought the whole situation was queer, to be honest, and more than a little unsettling. Unpopular as he was amongst both the household and, it was said, the rest of the population of Cornwall, Sir George Warleggan had nonetheless been a steady employer of staff at Trenwith over the years. Moreover, Lucy had found his decidedly chilly demeanour one of the only constants in the uncertain times they all lived in – a kind of warped beacon in the dark – and now that his usual haughty presence was gone things suddenly seemed all the more precarious.

“You think master is just ill then?” she finally asked, her plain face questioning.

“Gone mad, more like,” Lambert uttered mirthfully under his breath, displaying a rather cavalier attitude towards his employer now that Mr Burrow was out of earshot.

Mrs Parslow shot the footman a dirty look.

Lucy frowned. “That why we’re not allowed to see 'im?”

“I expect Sir George be _pleased_ to have some peace 'n quiet after such a long day in the doctor's care,” Mrs Parslow replied.

“Turn up for the books, though, ain't it,” said Lambert. “All those weeks talkin’ to Mrs Warleggan's ghost...”

“I hope this conversation is about to end.” Mr Burrow's low voice resonated in the damp confines of the kitchen. He loomed in the doorway, fire-bucket still in hand.

Lambert stiffened a little, but still clearly wished to discuss the topic. “You have to wonder, Mr Burrow,” he said. “I thought Sir George wasn't the type to... to...”

“To what?” challenged Mr Burrow, narrowing his eyes. “To become ill?”

“To lose 'is mind,” Lambert countered earnestly.

Mrs Parslow drew in an audibly shocked breath.

Mr Burrow slowly closed the space between himself and the taller footman. “I will not abide such _loose_ talk in my kitchen,” he said, mustering more than a hint of menace. “We have a duty to maintain and protect both this house and the family which reside in it. Should you find this task beyond you, I recommend you retire to your bed and stay there!”

Watching the exchange, Lucy sensed that _both_ men were secretly unsure as to what the next few hours, and indeed days, might bring.

Eventually capitulating to his superior's weight of argument, Lambert retreated back to the safety of his stool beside the cooking stove.

Mr Burrow turned towards Lucy. “Take this away,” he ordered, holding up the fire-bucket, “then deliver Sir George's meal to his room.”

Not expecting to be given such a task, Lucy looked at her superior quizzically.

“You have my permission,” Mr Burrow obliged, guessing the reason for her hesitation.

“Yes, Mister Burrow,” Lucy uttered, taking the fire-bucket from him before heading down a nearby corridor towards the scullery.

“Oh, and Lucy,” Mr Burrow added, following her out of the kitchen, speaking more quietly thanbefore so as to not be overheard by the others, “remember that you must not speak to Sir George while he is... resting. Just help with with his food then come straight back down.”

“Yes, Mister Burrow,” Lucy repeated automatically, though she furrowed her brow. _'Help him with his food'_? Could he not even feed himself now?!

Clearly uneasy, but also unwilling to elaborate further, Mr Burrow simply nodded then headed back up the corridor towards the kitchen, leaving Lucy to wonder just what she was about to see.

* * *

_Where are you, Elizabeth?_

George had asked himself this question over and over, repeating the quandary countless times throughout the day, sometimes out-loud as well as inside his own mind.

Now, though, George knew he must remain totally silent. As he'd spent more time in the _company_ of Dr Penrose, it had become more and more obvious to him that _silence_ was what the callous quack was after.

Silence and obedience.

To that end, George had slowly – and oh so _painfully_ – modified his behaviour accordingly, reigning in his temper and outrage at the situation he found himself in, giving the illusion of submission to the doctor in the hope that he'd believe his service had been rendered and leave. The ruse was something George had learned as a child, having witnessed a mouse 'play dead' out in the stables long enough that a local tom-cat gave up and left it alone, effectively saving itself not with superior strength but through _guile_ and patience.

Remaining still, with his eyes closed, George kept up his pretence, not knowing in his exhausted state where the doctor was. Breathing measured, shallow breaths as if in sleep, he could feel each place where he'd been hit keenly, though if he were honest with himself he knew his beating had not been much more serious than those he'd endured in the past, predominantly from Ross and Francis Poldark. Unlike his childhood scrapes, however, this time he could also feel the _bite_ of the straps which now bound his wrists, arms and body in place, as well as the _burn_ of the rope which was cutting into his ankles. He'd tried quietly to free his arms from the bindings, working his wrists back and forth methodically for what felt like hours, managing only to make the strapping _cinch_ even tighter into his skin.

It was only when George felt faint tendrils of warmth coming from the fireplace on the bottom of his feet that he knew Dr Penrose had _finally_ left the room, hopefully for good. His relief was swift but also fleeting, as his predicament still had him tied to his bed with no way out.

Swallowing back lump after lump in his throat to stay the crushing realisation that he was now completely alone he felt himself drift in and out despite his best efforts to remain alert, even sleeping a little when the darkness behind his eyelids became too enticing.

_What else is there to be done?_

* * *

Lucy walked upstairs with her master's 'meal' on a small silver tray, trying not to breath in the rather _un-nourishing_ scent that rose from the bowl. She thought Lambert had been right to call the grey, lumpy foodstuff in the bowl gruel, as that was exactly what it resembled.

_Hardly food for a knighted peer of the realm_.

Approaching the master bedchamber, Lucy came upon Cardy, who was standing quietly on sentry.

“Mr Burrow asked me to give this to the master.”

“Indeed,” Cardy replied knowingly before turning and unlocking the door, pushing it open for Lucy in light of the fact her hands were currently occupied with the tray.

Entering the rather cool and shadow-strewn chamber, Lucy was immediately struck by the sight of her master, Sir George Warleggan, lying flat on his back and shackled to his bed.

_What had happened here?!_

Hearing the door click closed behind her, Lucy cautiously approached her so far unresponsive employer, wondering just how Sir George was supposed to eat his food lying down, or without even the use of his hands.

_Was she expected to feed him like a baby?_

Placing the tray beside her master's prone form, Lucy silently looked him up and down, feeling a note of pity for the man despite all he once was. His face, which was usually so pale and taught, was now flushed and strangely calm – like a child's almost. For a man who took such great stock and pride in appearances, to appear so utterly pathetic and helpless now must be hard for him to bear.

Knowing she should not stare, nor indeed dawdle any longer, Lucy grabbed the ornate silver spoon beside the bowl and scooped up a generous serving, holding it up to her master's mouth in the hope he might stir and accept it for what it was. However, Sir George did not oblige, forcing her to use her initiative.

_Surely the man might be allowed the use of just one hand?_

Returning the spoon to the bowl, Lucy reached down and unbuckled the shackle around Sir George's right wrist without feeling the compulsion to ask permission first, noting the dark purple marks that circled the angry-looking skin. She then thought to place the silver spoon in his hand in order to prompt him into action, before unconsciously straightening his nightshirt sleeve, lest he wake to find himself in an even more dishevelled and degraded state than he perhaps feared.

_A tiny kindness to help the famously proud man recover himself all the quicker._

Her work done, Lucy retreated from the bed, leaving the chamber and its gently cracking fire.

“All well?” Cardy checked as he closed the heavy wooden door, furrowing his brow at the lack of tray in Lucy’s hands.

“Yes,” she replied simply, not divulging her little plot to the footman in case he told Mr Burrow.

Returning downstairs, Lucy hoped to escape to the scullery, though she only made it to the corridor outside the receiving room before being summoned inside by a familiar, low voice.

“Lucy, more port, if you please?”

Entering the room, which immediately felt much warmer than Sir George's, Lucy curtseyed begrudgingly to Mr Warleggan and his rather morose guest, assenting to fetch Lambert so that the footman might oblige the men with more liqueur. As she left she wondered how Mr Warleggan senior could entertain with such ease of manner when his own nephew lay upstairs in chains.

_Did he not care for Sir George at all?_

*** * ***

It took George few moments to fully comprehend the luck he'd been dealt. Having 'played dead' for his visitor so convincingly, he could hardly believe it when he felt his wrist being freed from the shackle that bound it, having almost resigned himself to staying where he was for the remainder of the evening, and perhaps even the night.

Waiting until he heard the heavy door of the room swing closed, he cracked open his eyes a little to check the coast was clear before feverishly clawing at the remaining buckles about his person, choking back a sudden urge to cry in relief, knowing he perhaps had precious little time to make an escape.

_An escape!_ he thought. _But to where?_

Caring little for his destination save for the notion it needed to be out of the house, George continued his efforts to free himself, gradually making his way through the copious bindings until all that was left was the rope that lashed his feet together.

“Damn you,” he murmured a couple of times as he picked at the knot, feeling a small bout of fear start to bloom in his chest until the rope finally gave way, allowing him to wriggle free.

Sliding off the bed, George barely gave his stiff and aching body time to adjust to his new freedom of movement before heading to a little-known panel door that was hidden behind one of the red drapes in the far corner of the room, leaving through the small portal without so much as a parting glance over his shoulder.

Flying haphazardly down a narrow stone stairwell, feeling the biting cold of the bare slabs underfoot, George spared little thought for his current state, not caring that he was ill-dressed in his simple nightshirt for heading outside into a chilly October evening. Before he knew it he was at ground level, taking scant caution to check for any of his staff before heading down one of the serving corridors, searching only for a door that might lead him out of the house and back to his Elizabeth.

“_Elizabeth_,” he whispered amid heaving breaths. “_Elizabeth..._”

Passing the scullery, not knowing that his flight was spotted by a lone maid who was slouched over a sink basin scrubbing one of the larger copper cooking pots, George finally caught sight of a thin line of light, heading towards it even faster than before.

“Yes, yes...” he murmured, nodding his wide-eyed head.

Stepping out into the dank, grey evening, George saw the great lawn that led to the woods and immediately began to sprint across it, encountering a brief moment of surprise at his renewed energy and speed. Upon reaching the trees he began to search for Elizabeth in earnest, looking left and right as he ran, wondering where she might be found.

_Where are you, my love?_

Feeling agitated that he could not hear her voice, George continued to fervently search high and low, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the solution to his troubles presented itself.

Changing direction time and time again on a whim, letting his increasingly worn feet guide him, George little knew how long he'd been running until he found himself on the outskirts of Nampara land – enemy territory.

He came to a halt, catching his breath, wondering if he'd been led to Ross' land for a particular reason, feeling his heart sink when he could only come to one soul-crushing conclusion.

_Please, no. Not this. Anywhere but here, Elizabeth. I beg you._

Crossing a recently harvested field, ignoring sharp corn stalks as they cut into his soles and the biting northerly windy that swept across the plain, George felt himself drawn towards the small stone cottage and the warm orange candlelight which glowed invitingly from its windows, hearing distant music and laughter on the air.

Unable to stop himself, he approached one of the cottage's small windows and gazed inside, seeing that Ross was entertaining a number of people, including one small figure he eventually recognised as being none other than Valentine!

Rather than feel rage, in his current state George only felt sadness and a twinge of regret as he watched his son interact with the Poldarks and their associates, smiling a fraction when he saw how the young boy's face lit up with joy as he enjoyed the warmth of their hospitality, realising that their had been little in the way of comparable happiness at Trenwith for many months.

_Perhaps you are better off here after all?_

Finding himself eventually unable to bear any more of the fantasy-like scene – having neither experienced such genuine frivolity during his own childhood nor been the source of it throughout his adult life – he gained little comfort from the small concession that Elizabeth was not in apparent attendance.

_But is this not what she desires?_

Knowing in his hearts of hearts that he himself would _never_ be welcomed to such a gathering, George took his leave of Nampara and the Poldark family, heading back out into the cold grey dusk with a waning resolve and a heavy emptiness in his chest.

_What purpose can I serve now?  
_


End file.
